


Festive Deathclaws

by Hornswaggler



Series: under cover of the night [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: (though only discussed), Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Nick/Deacon implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5528954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hornswaggler/pseuds/Hornswaggler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas may have been a few months ago, but that doesn't mean it's too late to compare old- and new-world traditions.<br/>And maybe think up a new one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Festive Deathclaws

**Author's Note:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS. This thing is short and plotless, but I love Christmas fluff, even if it isn't technically set on Christmas.
> 
> My stupid little crackship is kinda sorta implied, because I can't not. Have a lovely holiday!
> 
> (Note: This doesn't technically have a set spot in the timeline of the main fic. More of a 'it will probably happen eventually' sort of deal.)

Carly hadn’t really noticed Christmas pass. She didn’t pay too much attention to the date on her Pip-Boy -- when she’d first come out of the Vault, there was no way of telling how accurate it was. It had been a surprise to walk into Diamond City and see lights strung up and trees on the roofs of shops, but at the time she had stubbornly pushed the thoughts away, did her trading, and got back out quickly.

Barely two months in the Commonwealth. Two months since she had been frozen, Nate had been killed, and her son taken. There hadn’t been much room for even more thoughts of what she  _ should  _ be doing that time of year -- helping Nate get ready for some veteran’s holiday dinner, getting decorations up, helping Shaun open his first presents…

So she’d ignored it. It registered in some distant part of her mind, and Carly had made note that the date on the Pip-Boy was in fact still accurate, but other than that she had ignored it and pushed right back into Boston looking for answers.

It was a little ways into the new year now. 2288 had come with little fanfare, and things were...easier, in some ways. Remembering the past wasn’t as much of an open wound anymore, and having friends who refused to let her mope definitely helped.

She’d been travelling with Nick for a while before she met the Railroad, and though Deacon had started out trying to gather some intelligence on the both of them, it was pretty obvious that he’d moved beyond just keeping an eye on the new agent. Not that she knew any more about him than she had to begin with, but he was as close of a friend as she hoped to get in a place like the Commonwealth.

What he was to Nick, well...they still seemed to be figuring that out themselves.

They were on the road when Christmas got brought up, holed up in the shack with the most intact roof they could find. Most of it still leaked in the persistent storm outside, but one of the corners was sheltered enough. Usually rain wasn’t enough reason to stop early for the day, but they had to stay for a while anyway; Deacon had screwed up his leg on the road, taking a piece of rubble right to the shin and cracking one of the bones there enough that Carly had heard it from a few yards away. A stimpak had stopped most of the bleeding and, hopefully, started putting the bone back where it belonged, but they weren’t about to move quickly until the swelling went down.

“Glory always keeps things for months if she’s planning on giving them as a present,” Deacon was saying, running his fingers along the blade of his knife. “She found this in  _ August _ and still somehow managed to get it to me when I was on an undercover op. Nearly shot the guy who dropped it off, I wasn’t expecting a supply run that day.”

Carly glanced over from where she was heating up Instamash on a hot plate Nick had fixed for her. There was one slightly whole sofa in the room and Deacon had his bad leg propped up on the armrest. Nick had tried to claim the other half, but somehow Deacon had ended up stretching out, half-sprawled across the synth’s legs. Neither of them seemed to mind the arrangement too much.

“So presents are still a thing, huh?” she asked, and Deacon scoffed.

“Well duh, it’s Christmas.”

“Yeah, it’s also been 200 years.” Carly poked at the food, pulling a face when it was still stubbornly cold. She could build a fire, technically, but it felt safer not drawing more attention to themselves than absolutely necessary. “I mean, after hearing what happened to the idea of baseball…”

“Nah, you can’t ruin something like Christmas.” He shifted a little, and Carly could see Nick’s attention switch very briefly, like he was watching for any signs of pain that they both knew Deacon would never let show. “Time honored traditions -- gift exchanges, hanging lights, burning the straw brahmin to keep the nuclear winter from hitting again…”

“A straw brahmin?”

“I mean some of the people from further west make it a bighorner, but I guess it’s the same concept.” He was gesturing now, and it was impressive that Nick didn’t flinch considering Deacon was still holding his knife. “And you’ve got a lot of the families that hide a bit of ammo in the tree and whichever kid finds it gets to go out and kill the dinner. Putting the shoes outside and hoping something doesn’t die in them before morning, beating the tree with other sticks before you cut it down, it’s all the usual stuff.”

Carly frowned at Deacon first and then up at Nick. “Usually call him out on his bullshit way before now, Nick,” she said, and was surprised when he snorted.

“Oh no, for once he’s actually not exaggerating. People do all that.”

“I’m offended you question it.” Deacon shot her a melodramatic look of betrayal, casually flicking his knife so that it stuck in the back of the couch hilt up. “What must you think of me?”

“That you’re a lying piece of shit,” Carly told him, and he seemed to consider it before shrugging.

“Well not about  _ everything _ . Tell her, Nick, you know Christmas.”

Nick leaned back further, throwing his arm across the back of the couch. His silver hand caught the reflection of what little light was coming from the weak sunlight outside. “Well it’s like anything else from before the bombs isn’t it? 200 years twists things around, and there were already plenty of weird traditions before the bombs fell.”

“Oh?” Deacon craned his neck to look up at Nick nearly upside down with a crooked grin. “Bet we win.”

“You definitely win,” Carly said. She gave the food a defeated glare and grabbed the two cracked bowls she’d found in the shack’s kitchen. There wasn’t much to spoon into them, but at least it was marginally warm. Deacon took it when offered, at least, but gave her an expectant look and the woman sighed. “I mean I've heard of people rollerblading to church in some country. Rumors of some giant cat that like...ate kids or something." She shook her head with shrug. "We didn’t have many. Put up the tree, maybe hung some lights. Nate used to...he had a personal challenge to wear the ugliest tie possible to any of the dinners we got invited to.”

Deacon snorted, twisting his arm to jab Nick in the side as his bowl tilted dangerously. “That’s what you’re getting this year. Ugliest I can find; you need a new one anyway.”

“Eat your mash, idiot,” Nick told him, and Deacon pulled a face but he did shift enough to start scraping at the bowl. Nick looked up at the ceiling, yellow eyes narrowing a little. “Ellie always makes sure to put up a tree in the office. Have drinks with some old clients, nothing too exciting.” His gaze went distant for a few moments and then there might have been the start of a grin. “Back before the bombs, though...pretty sure Nick had at least two years spending Christmas on a stakeout.”

Carly chuckled, doing her best to swallow the Instamash without tasting much of it. “Yeah, I remember a year stuck with this stack of case files; that was thrilling.”

“It’s always Tom that decorates,” Deacon said. “Dunno where he gets the trees -- knowing him he might hit it with sticks and everything.”

“But there’s no beating  _ people  _ with sticks, right?” Carly asked, gesturing vaguely with her spoon. “That’s just baseball and...y’know, everyday life?”

“So far as I know.” Deacon seemed to consider it before adding, “Though I have heard of some annual deathclaw decorating parties.”

“Now  _ that’s  _ bullshit,” Nick said immediately, and Deacon waved a dismissive hand as Carly snorted.

“People are crazy, you never know.”

“Sounds like something you’d do, actually,” Carly said. “Sounds exactly crazy enough for you.”

“Sounds like fun." Deacon grinned, glancing between the other two quickly. “New Christmas tradition: festive deathclaws.”

Nick gave a long-suffering sigh. “That’ll work just great, I’m sure. Eat your damn mash.” Deacon made a face up at him, but when he looked back at his bowl Nick’s grin could have been called fond.

“Festive deathclaws,” Carly said thoughtfully. “I mean we’ve still got the better part of the year. Maybe rig a missile launcher to fire tinsel or something.” Deacon waved an approving spoon at her and Nick seemed exhausted by the mere thought.

She’d certainly be paying more attention to the Pip-Boy’s date this year.

Even in the post-apocalyptic wasteland, you couldn’t just miss Christmas.


End file.
